A Night Out
by CriticsCubby
Summary: He said he'd never do it..he just didn't see the point.


**A Night Out**

**Disclaimer -** Nope, still not mine. Still only borrowing.

**Summary -** He said he'd never do it..he just didn't see the point.

**A/N -** Forensiphile. It's all her fault. Also, that Amp I drank probably had something to do with it. Flying solo, nobody to blame for the mistakes but me, myself, and I.

* * *

Sherlock is sitting, arms crossed against his chest, legs tight against the couch...he's not happy. Joan is standing near the door, hand reaching out to the coat rack somewhat hesitantly.

"I just don't see the point, Watson." Sherlock all but barks from the couch.

"Sherlock, we've been over this. You don't have to come...I only thought it would be nice to spend a night out, together, away from the Brownstone that wasn't case-related." Joan stated matter-of-factly while wrapping her jacket over her arm.

"Yes, well, why did you have to pick _this_ activity? Of all the ways in which to waste time, this has to be the most ridiculous." He stood, arms still crossed, and walked stiffly towards her.

"I like movies, Sherlock. And...since it _is_ my birthday, I decided that it would be the perfect time to go see one." Now she was grabbing her purse. He was running out of time.

"There you go again, Watson." He huffed.

"There I go again, what?" She was getting impatient; the movie started in less than an hour and it was at a theater across town.

"Bringing up your birthday to make me feel guilty!" He shouted, finally uncrossing his arms in order to point at her.

"Sherlock, I didn't bring up my birthday to make you feel guilty...I brought up my birthday in answer to your questioning my motives for wanting to go see a movie. Which, by the way, starts in less than an hour. So, if you're finished pouting, could you please decide whether or not you're coming so I can hail a cab on my own or.."

"Fine. If you insist. I'll do it. _But_, only because it's your birthday and I would hate for you to spend it alone; that would be horridly depressing for you, I'm sure." His tone was dancing on the verge of coldness but Joan just rolled her eyes and decided not to argue.

Once inside the cab, Sherlock turned to Joan and sighed. Loudly.

"Yes, Sherlock?" She asked without even looking his direction.

"I was just wondering what movie we were even seeing. While I realize that it's your birthday and, therefore, your decision, I am desperately hoping that this isn't some sort of 'chick flick' nonsense that I'm going to be forced to sleep through for the next two hours. I'm quite adept at sleeping through all manner of things, as I'm sure you recall, but there are fewer things more grating to my psyche than a 'romcom'." He said the title as if the mere mention of it caused him physical pain.

"You do realize that agreeing to come and then telling me your plan was to sleep the whole time is rude, right?..." She glared in the darkness at his shadowed form. "But, no, we aren't going to see a 'romcom' so no worries about your psyche being grated. We're going to see a foreign film." She, once again, turned to face the window, refusing to admit to herself that his attitude toward the outing was affecting her.

"Excellent!" He shouted, surprising both Joan and the cab driver who, she could see in her peripheral vision, jumped visibly at the outburst.

"So you're _excited_ to see a movie now?" She asked, confusedly.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far, Watson, but I am pleased that I will at least have something to do now while you're watching."

"Which is...?" She still wasn't getting it.

"Checking the subtitles for accuracy, of course. What language is the film in? I do hope it's not French; I'm already quite proficient in that and would be bored within seconds, I'm sure." He was tapping his fingers against the window sill excitedly as he spoke.

"Right, how could I not have guessed that. Well, it's not in French so you're in luck. It's in Czech." She said, trying not to show her amusement. Happy as she was that he had at least agreed to come along, it was nice that he was now showing a bit of actual interest.

"Incredible! I've not utilized my Czech in quite some time. I'm rather glad you forced me to come along, Watson, this will be most enjoyable." He was practically vibrating with excitement; had she only known that foreign films (other than French, of course) were the key to getting Sherlock out of the Brownstone, she would have suggested one long before her birthday.

They rode the rest of the way with the only noises being that of Sherlock's always tapping fingers and Watson's occasional sighs of impatience; she liked his excitement but could only tolerate the tapping for so long. Thankfully, the traffic was light and they arrived at the theater in short order. In his readiness to exit the cab, however, Sherlock didn't notice that Joan had left her jacket behind in the backseat when she got out to pay the driver.

Once inside the theater, Joan made a beeline for the concession stand, Sherlock started for the theater hallway.

"Watson, you can't be serious. As a person that used to practice medicine, I can't believe you would even consider the idea of paying for food that has been exposed to all manner of germs and contaminants." He said disgustedly.

"It's part of the experience, Sherlock. And, besides, I like the germs; they add flavor." She was mocking him, he couldn't help but rise to the bait.

"Suit yourself, Watson, just don't ask me to drive you to hospital when you're suffering from acute intestinal spasms."

Rolling her eyes, Watson paid the concession attendant and joined Sherlock in the theater hall; theater four was just up ahead, the lights were already down, the theater mostly empty. Sherlock let Watson pass in front of him and lead the way to the middle section. When she selected a row, she heard him groan quietly.

"Would you like to choose, Sherlock?" She asked as she waved her popcorn-free hand towards the rows.

"We can sit wherever you'd like, Watson, I was merely confused as to why you were not heading to the exact center of the theater; it's very easy to spot." He was pointing at the general direction she had been heading anyway.

"Why don't you just pick the seats, Sherlock." She said, moving aside to let him pass.

"You don't have to be petulant, Watson." He huffed as he led them through the narrow seat-aisles and plopped down.

The previews started and the theater noise went down to the typical coughs, popcorn eating, and soft drink-drinking sounds...and Sherlock's tapping. While every once in awhile Joan would hear Sherlock chuckle to himself or mumble incoherently in a tone she knew to be criticism, he was not nearly as disruptive as he was at the opera.

About midway through the movie, Joan got chilly and went searching for her jacket. It wasn't there. While part of her wanted to panic and cause a scene (it was her favorite jacket), the other part of her didn't want to disrupt the calm that seemed to have finally settled over Sherlock, who was sitting quietly, barely tapping, and watching the screen seemingly enthralled. Despite her best efforts, though, Sherlock took note of her fidgeting and attempts to peer into the darkness near her purse.

"Looking for something?" He whispered near her bent form.

"My jacket, I can't find it." She whispered back, sitting up.

"Are you cold?" He asked, then quickly followed with "Honestly, I don't know why they keep theaters so ungodly frigid; as if the temperature would drive one to buying a warm beverage at that ghastly concession stand."

"It's a bit chilly, yes. I had always assumed the temperature was so low so that it encouraged men to bring dates to the movies; the cold gives the girls an excuse to cuddle up without being thought too forward." She whispered back, still sort of feeling around in the dark for her jacket.

A brief wisp of wind followed by instant warmth and slight pressure let her know that Sherlock had taken off his own jacket and placed it over her shoulders. She froze, not really knowing how to respond. Slowly, she sat up, careful to keep the jacket up on her shoulders during the position change. She looked over at Sherlock and saw that he was already re-engrossed in the movie.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She whispered lightly.

"Of course, Watson; wouldn't want you to catch a chill and not be able to assist on cases this week." He replied, still looking forward.

She smiled, tucked her arms beneath the warmth of the jacket sleeves, and resumed watching the movie.

Sherlock was quiet for the remainder of the film and most of the ride home, an act that both surprised and somewhat concerned Watson. It wasn't like him to not critique at least something about the evening.

When the cab pulled up in front of the Brownstone, Sherlock immediately hopped out and, before she could even finish paying the driver, was opening Joan's door. Hand extended toward her shocked face, Sherlock smirked as she took hold and let him assist her out of the car. Still wearing his jacket, despite the warm evening, she led the way up the steps to their door.

Standing together on the doorstep while Joan searched in vain for the keys to the Brownstone, Sherlock reached toward Joan, grabbed his jacket right at the waist, and pulled it and a bewildered Joan Watson toward him. Sliding his hand into the front pocket while Joan's gaze never left his face, he reached into the fold and pulled out a single key, holding it up between their bodies.

"Searching for this?" He asked teasingly, not distancing himself from her.

"Yes." She choked out.

Sherlock leaned down toward her, mouth hovering just above her ear. She could feel her heart racing and tried to still her breathing; it was a lost cause.

"Watson, please note that there is never a need for a cold theater if you desire closeness." He whispered.

Before she had time to respond, he stepped away. As she stood there, frozen but flushed, he opened the door and started inside. He paused, halfway in and halfway out of the door.

"Happy Birthday, Joan." He said simply. With a small smile, he walked the rest of the way through the door and disappeared, leaving Joan still glued to her spot beside the open door.

It was the best birthday she had had in a long time.

-fin


End file.
